


Of Dust And Diamonds

by entanglednow



Series: Wounds [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale loves Crowley, Coping Mechanisms, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Injury, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Loathing, Swearing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: After they're both released by Hell for good, Crowley and Aziraphale return to the bookshop. They're both dealing with their own trauma, but they're also determined not to lose what they spent six thousand years building towards.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wounds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604338
Comments: 216
Kudos: 763





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Exit Wounds, and this probably won't make too much sense without reading that first. There are no explicit scenes in this, but there are descriptions and discussion of gang rape, and of someone being forced to participate in a rape.

For all that Crowley is deeply relieved to leave Hell behind, the walk to the street is excruciating. Everything below the waist fucking _hurts_. His hips ache intensely with every step, and his thighs are both scratched and gouged to bleeding. It's still hard to breathe through the raw, stinging burn between them, that's broken only by the deep stabs of agony from inside. 

But you don't limp out of Hell, you don't let them know that they hurt you, especially not when you're taking the only thing you care about with you.

Aziraphale has stopped trying to catch his eye. Which is ironic, since he's the only thing Crowley wants to look at right now. But he needs to get them both somewhere else first. He needs to take them somewhere away from here, somewhere that feels safe. If only to stop Crowley's instincts from screaming at him that they're out in the open here, that they're still vulnerable, and Hell will drag them back if he and Aziraphale don't leave now. He knows they won't, the part of him that's thinking straight know they won't. The coin is a heavy weight now burning a hole in his pocket (not literally, though he wouldn't put that past them, the bastards.)

The Bentley is at the kerb, exactly where he wanted it to be, where he expected it to be, and it's almost never disappointed him - except where the music is concerned. He opens the passenger door for Aziraphale, habit, instinct, or some need he can't quite name right now. He pretends the angel doesn't give him a desperate, wounded look, before he slowly climbs inside.

Sliding into the driver's seat is an exercise in fucking misery, his insides and outsides are still torn and stretched and deeply bruised, they protest the pressure, in a way that makes Crowley clench his teeth and curl hands round the steering wheel hard enough to deform it.

His normal routine after a trip back to Hell - it won't work now, it won't work because he has Aziraphale beside him, looking as used and cored-out as Crowley feels. Oh, the angel is trying desperately to look like he's fine, but he's folded into himself, still shaking slightly, and there's an unpleasant grey tint to his face. It's not just his corporation, their abduction and subsequent torture has gone much deeper than that. His aura feels sharp and jagged, like his defences have gone mad and are now tagging the whole damn world as a threat. The flow of him is all wrong, oscillation too fast, tones too dark, and Crowley doesn't know how to fix any of that.

He doesn't know how to fucking fix that.

The first thing they need to do is get out of here.

But not to Crowley's flat, there'll be no returning to his hollow, empty territory to heal and shower the smell of Hell from his skin, change whichever sex they'd brutalised this time, turn the heating up too high and drink whatever feels far too expensive to be wasted on the messy crash that always comes after, that always comes after suffering one of Hell's especially brutal punishments. He can't shut himself away this time, can't sleep for a week and hope he wakes up feeling less humiliated, less disgusting, less impossibly furious at the grinding repetitive misery of it all.

He still can't quite make himself believe that this will be the last time.

No, this time it'll have to be the bookshop. Somewhere Aziraphale feels safe, somewhere Aziraphale can come down, can find himself again, can learn his own ways to cope with this, his own routine. Though Crowley hates that he has to, hates that this touched him, hates himself for making it happen, for being the fucking cheese that dragged Aziraphale to Hell. But he'll let Aziraphale do what he needs to do, whether he needs Crowley there for it or not. He'll sit outside in the fucking street if he has to. He just needs to be - he needs to be wherever Aziraphale is right now. Because the thought of leaving the angel alone like this, leaving him drifting in whatever place he is now, by himself, is unthinkable. Crowley can see how exhausted he is, he can read the guilt, and the flaring edges of anger that Aziraphale keeps desperately crushing down. The angel has never looked this broken and it terrifies him. 

They'll go to the bookshop, they'll go there, it's familiar, it's where Aziraphale feels safe -

Crowley just needs a fucking minute.

_Because Aziraphale saw everything. Saw everything they did to him, everything they made of him, everything he'd never wanted the angel to see._

He just needs a minute.

He's always managed to keep things that happened in Hell contained there, to keep it separate from his life on earth. He hadn't wanted Aziraphale to know any of it, to know how naked and worthless and dirty Hell could make you feel, could make you believe that you were. But now it's all spilled out. It's all spilled out, and Crowley can't put it back again, can't pretend it hadn't happened. Aziraphale saw everything, every filthy, humiliating part of it - _saw how disgusting Hell made him_.

_He saw everything._

He hates it. He hates the thought of Aziraphale watching him like that. It's fucking unbearable.

But it's worse than that, isn't it? It's so much worse than that. He not only saw, they made him _watch_ , as Crowley was treated like a thing, as he was passed from demon to demon, something worthless to be used however Hell saw fit. They made him _participate_. They made him take part in Crowley's rape, and then Crowley got off on it, like some sort of fucking monster, like the worthless demon he's supposed to be. 

Crowley was the one in chains, the one with his legs open, and his mouth shut tight, being forced to take Hell's least deserving, until he was a sticky mess of humiliated fucking agony. But he's been there before, he's had it all done to him before. At his lowest he's even thought he deserved it. What they did to Aziraphale was worse. The angel was better than that. He was cleaner than that, and Crowley fucking hates them for letting any of Hell touch him.

"Crowley?"

No, not yet, he can't, he's not ready yet. His fingers squeeze and twist on the wheel, he's clawing for words, something that will both reassure Aziraphale and make him stop talking at the same time.

"Crowley, will you let me heal you, please?" Aziraphale's voice still sounds thready and unreal, as if he's trying to gather himself back together, but hasn't managed to find all the pieces.

The angel wants to heal him, of course he does. That would be - that would be fucking nice. Since sitting down feels like being knifed repeatedly in the cunt, and it's getting harder to hide that from Aziraphale, also he smells like a demonic whorehouse. Which, let's be brutally honest here, is because he spent the last three hours being whored out to any demon who wanted to fuck him - and one angel who didn't.

What's he supposed to do now?

"Right," Crowley says. It comes out raspy and thick, nothing like he wants. Aziraphale needs him to sound normal right now, so he will sound fucking normal. He tries again. "Right, yeah, of course. That'd be great."

Aziraphale's hand lifts between them in the car, hovers in mid-air for a moment, as if unsure whether to touch him or not, unsure whether Aziraphale was still allowed to touch him. Which Crowley hates more than anything, because they'd finally reached a point where the angel had felt comfortable reaching out, had felt comfortable leaning into him, with a quiet, contented sort of happiness. Crowley had wanted that for so long. They had been so close to finally being everything Crowley's always wanted. And now it feels - it doesn't matter that he knows it's about boundaries, and consent, and violation, and all that fucking bollocks. Part of him is still - part of him still thinks that _obviously_ the angel doesn't want to touch him, after what he saw, after what he now knows about him. All the disgusting things Crowley's done - that he's had done to him, over and over. 

Crowley ignores those thoughts through long, painful years of practice, because he knows they're not true. And because even the thought of Aziraphale rejecting him like that now is almost unbearable. He forces one of his hands to leave the wheel, to relax and slip across the car, grasp the angel's. Aziraphale's fingers are too cold, like something's drawn all the warmth out of him. Or maybe Crowley's are too hot, burning through his energy too fast. But Aziraphale's hand is soft and strong, reassuringly familiar, in a way that makes his fingers curl around it, makes him feel less like screaming.

It's not so much a healing as it is a re-ordering of his entire form. A demand that he be undamaged and whole. It's a prickling sting of holy power that scours him clean as well, takes the filth from his hair and the slick, disgusting mess from inside his jeans. He didn't ask for it, and there's something ever so slightly invasive and unsettling about it. It makes him want to instinctively flinch away, to lash out. But it's Aziraphale, and maybe he needs to do this, maybe he needs to make Crowley _clean_. So Crowley lets him, lets him do it while his insides twist sickeningly. He lets Aziraphale do what he needs to do.

The lack of pain is a relief, the cold ache of numbness that follows it less so, but he's expecting it at least. He's dry in his clothes, feeling his skin prickle like a layer of it was stripped away, but he's no longer breathing through pain. The car smells like ozone and steel and leather, instead of cold sweat, blood, and demon spunk.

Aziraphale seems reluctant to let go of him afterwards, fingers folding over his own, before he's drawing then away all at once, fitting his hands together in his own lap, squeezing them so tightly Crowley can hear the skin moving.

Crowley wants to say something, something reassuring, to make Aziraphale understand that he doesn't blame him for anything, that none of it was his fault. No matter what he'd chosen it would have hurt them both, and Aziraphale would have hated himself, that was the whole point. But it's all still too sharp, too close, and the words are all clogged somewhere in his throat. But he can drive them home, he can do that. He's good for that at least. 

He curls his hand back round the wheel, squeezes until it squeaks in protest.

The angel is silent the whole way back, even though Crowley is certain that his driving is as reckless and inattentive as always. When he stops the car outside the bookshop, Aziraphale reaches slowly over and takes the keys out of the ignition, draws them into his lap with a pointed silence.

_I don't want you to leave. I need you to stay. I need to know that you're safe._

It's not spoken but it's there all the same. They don't ask things like that, they've never asked, maybe they've never worked out how. But Aziraphale is asking all the same. 

Crowley gets out without a word, slips round and opens Aziraphale's door for him, which pulls up an expression that's briefly tired and soft, before it abruptly becomes something appalled and guilty, and that doesn't belong on Aziraphale's face.

Crowley needs to fix this.

The bookshop is unexpectedly cold inside, as if they'd both been gone much longer than a handful of hours. There's a frown between Aziraphale's eyebrows as he takes in the bookshelves, the small tables and benches full of clutter. Crowley has to wonder if the angel was snatched from here, from somewhere that had always felt safe to him, and the thought offends him more than he can bear right now. His own abduction was from a busy street, no witnesses to protest the act, even though there'd been people everywhere.

"Crowley." Aziraphale seems determined to release whatever's inside him, before he chokes on it.

"Come on, angel, lets get inside. We'll sit down, have a drink, nothing alcoholic, probably best not to crack open anything alcoholic yet. Tea maybe, or cocoa, you like a bit of cocoa?" Crowley's rambling, he knows he is, rambling a slow, steady drawl of words, so Aziraphale can't drag him into something before he's ready, before he's dug his nails in, set himself right, made himself fucking stable again. "I can make you cocoa. Then we can...we can talk." Aziraphale will need to talk, will need him to talk in return, the angel talks things through, it's what he does. Crowley normally just takes the whole grubby mess of it home with him, and then replays it endlessly, while drinking heavily. Until it eventually takes on blurry edges and the numbness of repetition, and he can shove it in the filing cabinet in his memory marked 'horrific shit' with all the rest.

"Crowley, please let me -"

"Not yet," Crowley says. It's not loud, he knows it's not because he wouldn't allow it to be. But Aziraphale reacts like he's shouted it, he takes a step back, draws in a shaky breath and gives a weak series of nods.

"Just sit down and - and wait, and I'll make you cocoa."

"I should be doing that," Aziraphale protests, and Crowley takes some comfort in the barest hint of frustrated confusion in his voice. Something other than the slow drip of guilt and self-loathing. The last thing Crowley wants is for him to get stuck in that.

"It won't take a minute." He's already moving, slipping past bookshelves and into the back, where it's warmer, darker, quieter.

Aziraphale can't see him in the back, and it's the first time since Hell that the angel's eyes haven't been on him, haven't sought him out, haven't slid away in shame. Crowley lets himself breathe for a moment, he flips the kettle on and he lets himself be furious where no one can see. He lets all the worst, most disgusting thoughts eat at him. Because they will, whether he likes it or not, they always do, and it's always best to get it over with. He drags them all out into the light, and then denies them one by one.

He's not worthless. They didn't break him, they never have. He doesn't belong to them. They didn't make him like it. He hates them all. He doesn't want it, he's never wanted it. His body is his own. He's only as filthy as he lets himself be. Aziraphale isn't disgusted by him. Aziraphale knows he's more than what they made him in that room. Hell didn't ruin what they have. There will be no next time. _There will be no next time_.

Until he's exhausted with it all, until his jaw aches, and his mouth tastes like tin.

Then he goes to the fridge to find milk.

Sometimes fixating on a mundane and familiar task helps you process trauma, his brain tells him helpfully. He tells it to fuck off and leave him be. He's an inhuman, occult being, six thousand years on the planet, he can deal with his own miserable fucking experiences however he pleases. There isn't a coping mechanism he hasn't tried at least once, some more successfully than others.

Though it does make him pause halfway through pouring milk. Should he be letting Aziraphale do this? The angel likes to fixate on mundane tasks at the best of times. It stands to reason that it'd probably be a good way for him to - to feel like himself again. A good way to help him.

Fuck. He should have let him make it, shouldn't he? He ends up staring at the milk with an annoyed sort indecision. Should he ask Aziraphale to come in here and make it instead, give him a mundane task that he's familiar with? It's half way done now, that just seems stupid. It might just make him worry more, might make him think that Crowley couldn't cope with making cocoa on his own, and wouldn't that give a fantastic impression.

No. Best to just finish it.

He makes himself a coffee as well, if only to have something for his hand to wrap around, familiarity for him as well. All the times he's leant against a bookshelf, passed Aziraphale a mug that steamed and smelled like something he adored. Aziraphale could look at him and not see anything different than he normally did. Not see him any differently. Because he doesn't want Aziraphale to keep seeing him like that. He doesn't want Aziraphale to think about him like that.

_In chains, under his hands, helpless and bleeding and messy with their come, while he fucked him - gently, so gently, sobbing like someone had dragged his heart out._

Milk spills across the counter, and Crowley snaps it gone and sets the bottle down, harder than he means to.

No. He refuses to think about them like that. He refuses to consider that miserable thing that was forced on the both of them as their first time together. He. Fucking. Refuses.

Aziraphale deserves better than that, _he deserves better than him_ \- No, **fucking no** , just better than what Hell made them do.

He hesitates once the cocoa is done, wondering whether to put those little marshmallows you can buy in it. Aziraphale likes those, they make him feel spoiled and indulgent, maybe they'd comfort him now? But maybe now isn't the best time? Crowley doesn't want to ruin the marshmallows for him, doesn't want them forever connected with this moment, tainted by the memory of what Aziraphale had to watch, what he had to do. Of how he'd felt afterwards. He doesn't want to ruin anything for Aziraphale.

No marshmallows.

Aziraphale is in his chair when Crowley comes back out, hands together in his lap, looking small and broken for all that he attempts not to, tries so very hard not to. Crowley sets his own mug on the table, he even snaps up a coaster for it, just for the angel. Then he hands the steaming cocoa to Aziraphale, who looks at it as if he doesn't know what to do with it, as if he doesn't deserve it, before finally reaching out and accepting it.

"I should have done something," Aziraphale breathes through the steam, as if it's been waiting in his mouth since the moment Crowley left, waiting to spill like something sharp that's been bleeding him out. "I should have fought them harder. I should have refused. I shouldn't have chosen to -"

Crowley shushes him, puts his hands round Aziraphale's, and the hot, shaking mug of cocoa, so it doesn't spill on the angel's trousers. He holds him as much as he dares - and not even close to as much as he wants to.

"No, enough of that," he grates out. "There was nothing you could have done, nothing that would've ended any better for us. You made the choices you had to." He doesn't want to talk about this, he never talks about this. But Aziraphale needs to, Aziraphale needs him to, so he will.

The angel frowns and shakes his head, as if he doesn't believe him.

"I chose to participate," Aziraphale points out, as if he should be judged for it. "I chose to put my hands on you. To do so much worse than that. I'm so very sorry." The expression on his face says he has already judged himself, as if he believes his actions make him just as bad as any of them. Which is devastating and _obscene_ , and leaves Crowley so angry he can't breathe for a minute. Because Aziraphale could never find pleasure in someone else's pain, someone else's misery. He'd never break something just because he could, he'd never ruin something so no one else could ever want it. 

The horrible irony is that Crowley would have done anything, _anything_ to have Aziraphale's hands on him. But not like that, never like that.

"Nothing that happened in that room was your fault," he says at last, when he's beaten everything sharp and angry from his voice. It hurts his throat all the same. "You're not to blame for any of it. It's Hell, Aziraphale, they'll hurt you any way that they can. And if they can't find a way to hurt you, then they'll break everything you care about. You haven't done anything I didn't already forgive you for," Crowley tells him.

Aziraphale shakes his head again, but this time it's because he can't speak, and by all that's fucking unholy, Crowley never meant to make the angel cry. 

"Hey, no, don't do that." Please, don't do that.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says again, and retrieves a handkerchief from somewhere inside his jacket.

Crowley huffs something which might have been a laugh, on a better day. He waits for Aziraphale to dry his eyes and look vaguely ashamed, and then take a sip of his cocoa.

Crowley can see his coffee steaming gently, he should pick it up and drink it, he should hold it, make this all feel more normal and less fractured. But he isn't sure he could swallow anything right now, something in his throat closes at the thought of it, a flat refusal to have his body invaded by anything else. He makes himself concentrate on Aziraphale instead. 

"I know - I know you don't want to hear it, but I have been through Hell's punishments before, I've seen what they do, I've seen the _worst_ that they do. It's miserable and it's awful, and it makes you feel fucking worthless, but that's the whole point, that's what they want from you. _This_ is what they want, and I've spent a long time not giving Hell what they want, angel. The worst thing, the worst fucking thing, was that they made you watch -" Crowley's throat tightens, and he fights past it, doesn't let it be anything more than a broken breath between words. "And I hated that. But I knew they couldn't hurt you, they weren't allowed to."

"They did hurt me," Aziraphale says, anger clear in his voice now. "Every moment of it hurt me, and all I wanted was to take you out of there. Which is why I - which is why I choose to do what I did. I couldn't have watched what they were going to do to you. I didn't want to do it, please believe me, never like that, I will never forgive myself for it. But I wanted so badly to take you out of there, to bring you home." Aziraphale stops, as if he's said something wrong, as if he's assumed too much.

Crowley's entire being clenches in miserable agony, at how ruined Aziraphale sounds. But he shoves it down, shoves it down with all the rest until it aches, until it strains against his ribs. He refuses to let it show on his face. Because he's already a broken, messy thing - but Aziraphale, Aziraphale he can piece together again if he tries hard enough, if he's careful enough. He leans forward and rubs, gently, at the angel's trembling arms, tries to make reassuring noises, isn't sure if he manages it.

"And now they can't hurt you again, they can't hurt either of us. That's it, it's done, finished. We never have to go back. I never have to go back." Crowley decides to stop leaning in, and just sit on the small table beside him, books pushed carefully out of the way. "Drink your cocoa, angel. I'm not going anywhere."

Because Crowley needs Aziraphale to be alright. That's what he needs more than anything else right now. He's jammed his own broken pieces together again enough times that he knows they'll hold. He'll hold Aziraphale's too if he has to.

Aziraphale gives him a long look, and then very slowly raises his mug, takes a slow drink. "It's very good, thank you."

Crowley nods, lets his arms sink into his knees and sighs, exhausted beyond measure.

Aziraphale looks towards the sofa, where Crowley has spent many an evening and a night in half-drunken unconsciousness, or simply napping an afternoon away while Aziraphale quietly navigates the shop. The angel looks away quickly, mouth suddenly tense. He stares into his mug instead, a guilty sort of anguish in his expression.

"If you'd feel uncomfortable sleeping here -"

"Aziraphale," Crowley says quietly, tiredly. "I'm not sure I could sleep anywhere else right now."

The guilty look tries to smooth out, and just ends up looking pained.

"It's just, with everything that's happened -" He leaves the rest to hang, as if it's obvious in some way, but then he seems to change his mind, intent on explaining. "At the very least I have abused your trust," Aziraphale says, quietly but firmly. "At the very least." 

He says it as if he's still awaiting punishment. Which does nothing but hurt.

"Yeah, and I forgave you," Crowley says again, wonders how many times he'll have to repeat it, how many times before the angel accepts it. "It's what we do, isn't it? We have our differences, we fuck up, we make mistakes." They've fought before, dug in where the other was vulnerable, said things they didn't mean. Six thousand years is a long time to be friends with someone who's supposed to be your enemy. But they've always come back to each other.

"It's not the same," Aziraphale insists. "I can't just -"

Crowley can't help but hiss frustration. "Then make amends, buy me something nice, take me out to dinner, just don't do this." He gestures between them.

"I don't know what you mean." Aziraphale's voice is thin and confused, like he really doesn't know what he's doing.

"This part, where you apologise over and over, and punish yourself, and pretend you had any real choice down there," Crowley says, knowing he sounds miserable now, knowing it will make Aziraphale feel worse, words still spitting their way out of him anyway. "I hate it, I don't want it, I don't need it, and it's just hurting you. You were raped too and you know it."

"Please don't," Aziraphale says stiffly.

Crowley can feel him pulling away, trying to shut down. He reaches up and drags his sunglasses off, he lets Aziraphale _see_ him.

"Don't what, tell you the truth?"

"The very least of what happened in that room happened to me," Aziraphale protests miserably, but there's finally an edge of something angry in his voice.

Crowley hopes he looks as horrified as he feels. "It's not a fucking competition in suffering, Aziraphale. I know exactly what happened in that room. I've gone through it before a time or two, I think that was made fairly fucking clear to you."

Aziraphale winces, swallows thickly and sets his shaking cocoa down, pulls at the handkerchief he'd already half destroyed.

"Crowley -"

"No." Crowley stops there, because his voice is too loud and too angry, he wants to be angry at a lot of things right now, but Aziraphale is not one of them. "You don't get to downplay your fucking trauma for mine, that's not how this works," he finishes.

_Don't think about me like that, please don't think about me like that._

"Do you want me to fight with you?" Aziraphale asks quietly, hurt like he doesn't understand. And that just makes the claws inside Crowley dig deeper. It makes it harder to grind them down and ignore them.

"No -" The moment he says it he realises he's not true. Because this strange slithering tension is killing him, and he needs Aziraphale to not feel like this. "I don't know, fuck, maybe, a little."

"Why?" Aziraphale's expression has fallen, as if he's afraid that this is punishment somehow, something he'll have to accept, when that's exactly the opposite of what it is.

"Because it feels familiar," Crowley grinds out angrily. "It feels like us, this is what we do, and I need that right now. Because I'm fucking tired and I'm not good at this. I'm not good, Aziraphale. But I know how our memories work. How the bad stuff gets seared into you like a brand. We only forget that stuff if we want to, and it takes work. Until then it's just there, over and over, and I _don't fucking want that for you_." He snaps his teeth on the last part, too loud, too angry. More than what he wants Aziraphale to cope with right now.

Aziraphale blinks at him, expression pained, but somehow softer.

"I'm sorry." Crowley shakes his head, finds that easier to say than he'd thought it would be. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say that," Aziraphale says desperately. "Please don't say that to me."

Too late, Crowley thinks, too late for a lot of things.

"There, we've both apologised," he says weakly, instead of trying to convince him again that he wasn't to blame for any of it. "We've both hated it. That has to mean something." Can we please stop now?

Aziraphale doesn't reply, and when Crowley's hands twitch, helplessly, on his knees, as if they want to reach out, the angel draws his own back into his lap, fingers squeezing together tightly.

Crowley tries very hard not to take that as a rejection, but it still hurts.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley doesn't touch his coffee, he leaves it to go cold on the table, with the abandoned mug of cocoa. Aziraphale hates how worried the demon looks, hates how thin and worn he feels underneath. Crowley's eyes are yellow from corner to corner, pupils dagger-sharp, and his mouth is a tired, tightly drawn line. Aziraphale forces himself to straighten in the chair, fights back the strange urge to curl and tighten and brace himself, as if that will afford some protection from his own inner turmoil. Because he needs to give the impression that he has managed to collect himself, that Crowley's care is appreciated but unnecessary. Though he fears he's scrunched the handkerchief he's still holding into an unrecoverable state, and that seems terribly obvious and accusing. A telling piece of evidence as to his mental state. He presses it between both hands and forces them to still.

"I'm quite alright, Crowley. I just need a moment." He needs so much more than a moment, but he supposes that will come eventually.

Aziraphale watches Crowley nod, replace his glasses, and then move slowly and reluctantly to the sofa, possibly in some attempt to give him the space he believes that he wants. When nothing could be further from the truth. But if distance will encourage him to see to his own needs then Aziraphale will bear it. He watches Crowley spread himself out against the cushions, resting there for a moment, before his eyes fall shut, and he's asleep almost immediately. His body simply surrenders to the angry, exhausted tension that had been running him since they'd come back to the bookshop. The very fact that he'd managed to do so, that he'd chosen to do so here, confirms to Aziraphale that Crowley still trusts him, without question or reserve.

He can't quite convince himself that he deserves it. That he still deserves to be present when Crowley is so very vulnerable.

There's no easy sprawl to the position Crowley's in now though, nothing of the almost liquid elegance he's always been capable of, that always felt carefully chosen to look as confident and effortless as possible. No, his sprawl is still loose, but now it's disjointed and crooked, as if he'd fallen from a great height. There's nothing of comfort or intention there. Aziraphale suspects that it's not so much sleep as a conscious decision by Crowley to shut his exhausted body down, to remove himself from the world for a while.

Aziraphale doesn't know how long that will be.

Either way, he'll be here. 

He owes Crowley that much, and there's nowhere else in Creation that he would rather be right now.

It's almost a relief, to see him sleeping. It's so much better than watching him desperately trying to shore Aziraphale up, to hold him together, to care for him through this. When Crowley clearly doesn't have the energy for it, all frayed edges, tension and sharpness, neglecting his own needs, his own pains, smothering every hint of his feelings - feelings that he seemed to believe were too strong, or too much for Aziraphale to bear. As if Crowley worried that he'd crack under the force of them.

Aziraphale loves him dearly for it - for that and for so many reasons - but at the same time he finds it utterly intolerable. He can't help but wish Crowley would give him some of the anger, would let some of it spill over onto him. Because he thinks Crowley needs it, and Aziraphale thinks that he deserves it. But the demon is carefully keeping it from him, forcing it down, holding it close, as if it won't hurt him as well. They're both just leaning their open wounds against each other, as if they expect to stem the bleeding that way. 

They are both of them so very stupid. He has no idea how they managed to hide it for so long.

Aziraphale stands from his armchair, feeling old in a way he's never quite experienced before. He'd never understood that phrase about a body having seen and done too much. But it seems suddenly apt for the way he feels. As if he's filled entirely to the brim with all the horrors the world is capable of, as if he'd touched too much of it, and it had seeped all the way into him, too deep to scrub out. There is no room in him for more, he'll crack open.

He retrieves his and Crowley's cold mugs from the table, heedless of rings or drips left behind, and then takes them into the kitchen, abandons them there. He miracles a blanket, something soft in shades of midnight blue and warm burgundy. It may also have a tartan pattern to the weave, if one chooses to look carefully, since old habits die hard. He lays it over the sleeping demon as carefully as he can. He doubts Crowley will wake for any minor, or possibly even major, disturbance but it feels wrong not to care for him, not to be kind.

How could he not be kind to him, after what he'd done?

He's careful not to touch him. Though he desperately wants to. He wants to lean in and run his hand through Crowley's curve of dark, red hair. He wants to touch the unhappy curve of his narrow mouth. He wants to press a palm to his sharp cheek and let warmth curl into him. He wants to kneel here, before Crowley's exhausted body and tangle their fingers together and not move until he wakes again.

Instead he straightens the blanket one last time, and then moves away.

He's almost back to the armchair when he notices, almost absently, that there's a crease in the sleeve of his jacket. The material is wrinkled at the elbow, grubby smudges from dirty fingers - _where he was grabbed and restrained, made to watch, made to watch every brutal second of it_ \- there's a streak of soot there too. There are more greasy marks from a demon's fingers at his shoulder and upper arms. The fine coating of particles shed from Hell and on to him, in every inch of the material. There's a smear of blood on the waistband of his trousers as well, he finds it when he eases the side of his jacket away, without thought. He also finds a crusted streak of blood and semen down the fly - and he feels everything inside him lurch sharply. As if he'd tried to leave his corporation entirely, to wrench himself free of it, and been denied.

He's still wearing the same clothes. The same clothes he was wearing when he raped his best and only friend - when he raped the love of his life. When he proved beyond doubt that he was perfectly capable of terrible things. 

He'd made certain that Crowley was clean, but he'd somehow forgotten himself. The sudden undeniable fact that he must still smell like Hell, must still feel like something dragged up from there, and he hadn't even noticed, is shocking in its awfulness. He could miracle it all away, he could render his clothes as good as new, better than new even. But the stains would never truly be gone. Nothing is ever completely erased, no matter how much you might desperately want it to be.

The sudden pain of that is almost unbearable.

He's shaking again. Which he's aware is a reaction of his body to everything it's been through, everything he's trying his best to cope with, without falling apart utterly. He's aware that he could stop it, he could force his corporation to submit to his control, deny it the ability to feel any of this. Aziraphale thinks he could feel nothing at all, if he truly wished. But he doesn't think that would be a kindness, to him or to Crowley. So instead he locks the front door, wards the place as tightly as he can, and moves into the back, up the small narrow staircase to the living space above.

Aziraphale rarely spends any amount of time upstairs. 

Sometimes, during the cold misery of some long Winters, when Crowley sleeps more and visits less, Aziraphale will dress himself in warm pyjamas and settle in the large, antique bed, blankets piled around him, pillows plumped at his back, a favourite book open on his lap. He will drink cocoa and let his body absorb the warmth, and read deep into the night.

Occasionally he will venture into the bathroom, and indulge himself with a long, relaxing bath. 

But most of the time the furniture and fixtures upstairs go unused, and are left to collect dust, to quietly creak away to themselves unwanted and forgotten about. Until a miracle reminds the pipes and the floorboards and the windows to return to working order. The bathroom is dusty now, a fine layer of it across the bath and sink, their taps, and the closed toilet. Aziraphale snaps it away, and turns both taps on the bath to full, paying no attention to temperature, he simply wants it to fill as quickly as possible.

He carefully pulls his bow tie open and draws it off, hangs it over the back of the chair by the door. He open the small buttons of his waistcoat, the larger buttons of his shirt, slowly sliding them both free and setting them aside. The rush of the water drowns out the soft sound of his trouser zip lowering, the sound of his unsteady breathing. He slides both his trousers and his underwear down at the same time, feet pushing them away across the tiles.

Aziraphale's bending to retrieve them, shaking them out, when he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.

He sees far too much of his hunched, miserable posture, the strange, naked fleshiness of his skin, and the oddly bruised, beaten expression that looks alien on his face. But the worst thing in his reflection, is the dark and obvious dried blood on his genitals, and stained into his pubic hair. The sight of it, of the sickening proof of what he'd done, chokes all the air in his throat, and leaves him making quiet, breathless noises of despair, of apology, where there is no one to hear them, least of all the person he wants to most of all. 

It's a moment before he can collect himself, before he can chide himself for falling apart when he's trying to accomplish a simple task. He forces himself straight again. Then he slowly lifts and folds his clothes, perfectly neatly, piece by piece, paying special care to seams that have seen him through the last hundred and fifty years. He sets the tidy stack of them on the chair by the bath, hand briefly pressed to the familiar well-worn softness.

Then he banishes them from existence. 

He intends to bathe quickly and efficiently, so as not to leave Crowley alone for too long. But instead he just finds himself sitting in the water, staring at his own body, made ugly and unfamiliar by refraction. He forces himself to wash his hair, to soap himself with a numb sort of confusion. It all feels very human suddenly, so very crude and unnecessary. This isn't even truly his body after all. It's like a suit of clothes that he wears. A suit of clothes that he cannot currently take off, or banish from existence. A suit of clothes that were made to remember, to stain, to bruise, to do vile things.

This is supposed to help though, isn't it? He's seen this help people after they've - _afterwards_. Something about the act of making yourself clean again, after a traumatic experience.

Instead Aziraphale is sitting in the water making noises unbefitting an angel.

If anything he feels worse.

He doesn't understand why he is still an angel, doesn't understand how he hasn't been judged by the Almighty for this. He's an angel who has more than earned punishment from Heaven, and yet none has been given. _None has been given_. He can't help but be furious at Heaven for that, at their silence. Angels have Fallen for asking questions, for disobedience, for blasphemy. How is what he's done not worse than that? How is it not enough? 

Aziraphale bullies himself into leaving the water eventually. He's already been gone for far too long, and Crowley is alone downstairs. He'd left him alone and defenceless, and there's no excuse for that. 

He chooses a blue shirt, with a much paler bow tie, and a thickly knitted white cardigan. He pairs it with simple, pale grey trousers. He dresses in them quickly, taking little care with their seams and fastenings. He dislikes the way they fit, the way that they feel on his skin, they're unpleasantly synthetic and unfamiliar. 

He supposes he'll get used to it.

It isn't until he checks the clock that he realises he's been upstairs for two hours. He hurries back down the stairs, suddenly terrified and furious with himself, fully expecting the sofa to be empty, blanket tossed aside, bookshop door open. But his demon - no, he has lost the privilege to describe him that way - _Crowley_ is still on the sofa, in almost exactly the same position as Aziraphale left him. The differences are slight, gravity has let his arm hang just a touch closer to the floor, one foot has slipped sideways a few inches, and his glasses are now gently askew, revealing the strangely delicate skin of his closed eyes. 

The relief almost crushes him. 

He finds he can't do anything but watch him for long minutes, until it passes beyond reassurance and becomes comfort. Crowley is here, where he has always been. _Crowley is still here_.

Crowley has assured him that Hell was done with them - such an awful phrase suddenly - that they would no longer pursue them, or threaten them, or make demands upon them. Aziraphale isn't sure he understands how they can visit such obscene cruelty on them and then never bother them again. Of how all this can be anything other than deeply personal. But isn't that what Crowley has always tried to explain? When Aziraphale hadn't been listening, hadn't known to listen at the time. The demons all belonged to Hell, to its whims and its lusts, and its violence. Hell had learned so much about being flesh and blood from humans. Aziraphale had been there, had been with Crowley while they both watched in horror as the humans invented new ways to hurt each other.

He hadn't known at the time, hadn't realised, that he'd been watching Hell learn too.

Aziraphale has seen humans commit untold horrors over the years. He's witnessed impossible depths of destructive fury and extremes of sick depravity that have left him sometimes quietly, guiltily, _blasphemously_ wondering if they weren't fundamentally flawed in some way. But he and Crowley had always seemed somehow apart from it all. It had never quite touched them - or so he'd thought - it had never felt so personal, so intimate, and so utterly ruining.

Aziraphale understands now that this has been happening to Crowley for a long time, likely from the beginning. Hell had never been lax in its punishments, but to be confronted with the true extent of them, of their brutality and their obscenely sexual nature. To be forced to witness it, to watch the person he loved be debased and violated, over and over. To know that it wasn't the first time it had happened to him.

He's still deeply angry with himself, for never realising, for never noticing anything, for having no idea that Crowley had not only faced such horrors but often enough to make them a constant, grinding misery. 

Aziraphale had always felt warmed by the fact that he'd known Crowley well, perhaps better than anyone else, that he'd understood him. To have missed something so horrendous seemed impossible, surely Crowley can't have hidden it that well? How could Aziraphale have not seen it? How could a friend have missed something like that? How could a friend not have known. He's afraid, suddenly, that there were signs after all, and that he missed them. That if he'd bothered to look, if he'd paid attention, he would have seen them, he would have realised. He would have -

What would he have done?

That's the question, isn't it? If he had known before today, what would he have done? What could he have done against the might of Hell?

Aziraphale likes to think he would at least have seen to Crowley's needs more, wouldn't have been so selfish, wouldn't have let Crowley carry so much of their shared history. He wouldn't have denied every hint of friendship, rebuffed every cautious offer of companionship, thrown so many hurtful words back in his face. If he'd understood then how Crowley's deeply hidden desire to be good, to be worthy, to not be a monster, even in the face of such monstrous treatment, was a refutation of everything Hell told him he was.

He might never have agreed to the Arrangement, never would have taken the risk that his actions, his inexperience with temptations, would cause Crowley pain. Because he knows now that it did, though he doesn't know how many times, or in what ways, and the thought eats at him.

If he'd known all of it, Aziraphale would never have hurt him. 

He would never have hurt the demon who had loved him, against all sense or reason, for so long.

~

Aziraphale doesn't sleep.

He spends the night in the armchair across from the sofa, holding a book in his lap. He tries to read it sixteen times, but his mind is unwilling to accept a diversion, unwilling to accept a moment of peace. Instead he sits quietly, cradling it in his lap, drifting between anger and misery. He makes himself seven cups of tea, but only drinks two of them...one he spills across a stack of art history books he'd been meaning to re-shelve.

He feels unmoored.

His clothes don't fit right. His body doesn't fit right. It almost feels like a stranger stole his flesh, used it to commit horrific acts, then left him wearing the skin.

When Aziraphale had signed his final paperwork, Heaven had agreed to provide new corporations should they become necessary. Aziraphale could apply for another, insist that this one was damaged beyond repair. They would give him a new one, one that had never touched Crowley intimately, while he was restrained and bleeding. One that had never been used to sexually violate him.

He won't do it though. Aziraphale is smart enough to see how ridiculous of an idea that is, how simplistic and cowardly. He suspects he would feel exactly the same, angry and dirty, and unworthy, slowly being eaten by misery, and by guilt. He would realise that it was nothing to do with the body, it was simply him. 

He would rather spare himself that.

Aziraphale worries that Crowley will dream. He'd told him once that he dreamt sometimes, six thousand years of memories, and a human corporation barely designed to hold a hundred years at best. It's the reason it can sometimes be hard to remember things. Their original forms remember everything, of course, every sight, every sound, every smell, and a hundred things that human bodies don't have the ability to detect. The human form is an imperfect conduit though, it gets things wrong, memories coloured by other memories, by opinions and emotions. It's an astonishing creation, that has always been curious in its perfect imperfections.

Aziraphale has been told that dreams are like living out small, strange plays put on by your imagination. Ones that you believe to be perfectly real at the time. Or they can be something more like replaying memories, with some of the details randomly changed.

He doesn't want Crowley to replay the memories currently closest to the surface. He resolves to wake him, should he seem distressed.

Instead Crowley remains in his uncomfortable, broken sprawl, barely breathing, looking unnaturally thin beneath the blanket. Aziraphale notices absently that his boots are leaving marks on the fabric of the sofa. Normally he would tut at the mess and pad across the room, unlace them and slip them off, set them on the floor beside him, neatly paired, for when Crowley woke.

But the idea of removing any of Crowley's clothing without his permission right now, makes Aziraphale's stomach twist with horrified nausea. He wonders how many of their habits, how many of the careful little things they do around each other, and for each other, have been ruined? The thought infuriates him. Which leaves him feeling guilty again.

He knows Crowley doesn't blame him. He knows Crowley has forgiven him. But knowing and accepting are sometimes wildly removed from each other.

Aziraphale's no longer certain what he deserves.

~

Crowley sleeps through the second day as well.

Aziraphale isn't sure whether he wishes Crowley would wake or not. He seems, if not peaceful then currently undisturbed by the horrors visited on him. But Aziraphale misses his voice, misses his quiet grumbling as he thumbs his way through his phone, misses his muttered asides to whatever news has riled him. He misses the way Crowley will raise an eyebrow in amusement at Aziraphale's thinly veiled insults towards the customers (of which, since he'd locked the shop, there are currently none.) He misses his noises of frustration and annoyance, and the way he gives that little frown at Aziraphale over his glasses when he's being ridiculous. He misses the angular lean of him. He misses his slithering, half-falling stride and the way he'll perch against Aziraphale's desk, hands crammed into his pockets in a way that always looks painful. He misses the way his hair will catch the light and look like polished bronze. He misses his restrained biting laughs, and the quirks of his mouth that sometimes stretch wide just for him - and that always feels like a gift. 

He spends the day determined to think of him like that. In all his many varied, fascinating and familiar ways. To think of him like that, and not strung up naked in chains.

The quiet is difficult to cope with. He spends a lot of time in his own head, which is an unpleasant place to be currently.

But Crowley is here. Crowley is here with him.

~

On the third day he cleans the shop. A vigorous and repetitive task seems the perfect way to beat his subconscious into submission. His memory has always been better than Crowley's, and the demon wasn't wrong, the things that affect you strongly tend to imprint themselves more sharply, to want to replay, over and over.

He's been fighting it, he's been resisting, pushing the memories down every time they flicker into life, every time he finds himself feeling the prickle of Hell, seeing that cavernous room and the crowd of hungry demons. Every small noise has him shoving down the sound of chains grating against stone. A dropped book becomes the heavy sound of skin hitting skin. The flutter of pages becomes the low, pained sound of breathing, and the slide of a drawer closing becomes a slap. But he fights it.

He fights it for hours, until he can't any more. Until fighting the memories seems somehow counterproductive, cowardly, and instead, sick and exhausted, and filled with self-loathing, he lets them play.

He lets them play, and he cries until it hurts, until he feels broken and full of glass shards, and after a while he realises that for all the horror and the misery and the violation that happened to them both. There is still Crowley, and Crowley is beautiful, and strong, and unbelievably brave.

Aziraphale loves him terribly. Not only in the way angels are supposed to love, pure and selfless and unconditional. He also loves him in a way that's so very human. He loves him messily, painfully, selfishly, with everything he is. 

He knows what Crowley needs, more than anything.

He knows what he has to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley wakes to the sound of a book being dropped, a loud thump that has him kicking out with a foot, feeling the impact judder all the way up his thigh. He draws a startled, crackling breath, and forces open his eyes. For a second he's confused by the view of the bookshop's familiar, cluttered shelves and tables, and its deeply ugly carpets, the world smells of paper and cocoa, and Aziraphale. They all grate jarringly against the very recent memory he has, of being dragged back to Hell and strung up in chains, for one last punishment.

Until both coalesce into one horrific memory, which for a moment is so vivid he can't breathe. _Aziraphale. Aziraphale was there._ And the jagged, unstoppable replay of that entire memory brings a sharp and unwanted reminder of exactly what the angel had felt like inside him, of how gently he'd moved, where Crowley was already raw and burning, while the other demons jeered and made obscene suggestions of exactly how Crowley liked to be fucked -

He pushes the memory away, hissing annoyance at it choosing the moment between wake and sleep to sneak in through his defences.

He's no longer in Hell. He never has to go back to Hell again. They let him leave, they even gave him an infernal coin, that grants him passage out and marks him as untouchable. He remembers the car, remembers Aziraphale healing him. He remembers bringing Aziraphale here, remembers making him cocoa that he'd barely been able to hold, hands trembling, until Crowley had wrapped his own around them. 

He doesn't remember falling asleep. He probably shouldn't have let himself, shouldn't have left Aziraphale by himself after everything that had happened. He should have stayed with him. He can feel that it's been longer than a day, a few days at least by now.

He's covered by a thick blanket in rich, indulgent shades of blue and red, a subtle tartan pattern underneath, where the angel probably hoped he wouldn't see it. He's missing his glasses, but he's still wearing his boots, his phone, keys and the coin are still in his pockets. He's still tired, but in a way that feels much simpler and more human, less all consuming, less wounded. He can hear Aziraphale moving in the back of the shop, at his slow, familiar walking pace, that's more distracted than purposeful. 

Crowley's body slowly relaxes, at the evidence that the angel is here, that's he's safe, that he hasn't been spirited away while Crowley slept.

There are a few things he needs to do before he sees him though, things that have become comforts over the years. He changes sex, no longer quite as comfortable wearing a cunt for a while. He shortens his hair again, just enough to shake the sense memory of a hand dragging through it, tacky and disgusting with come. He checks his corporation, makes absolutely sure that there's not a single part of it that doesn't belong, not a single piece of any of them left inside him. Before he slowly stretches himself out, listens to the series of clicks and pops that tell him his body is whole, that it's under his control, that it belongs to him and no one else again. 

By the time he's pushed himself fully upright, and carefully folded the blanket, Aziraphale is standing over him, holding a tall, steaming mug that smells like burnt coffee. The angel's wearing clothes that are entirely new and different, all shades of pastel blue and cream wool. The look softens him a little, not that Aziraphale had many edges to start with, but it makes him look more approachable, more inviting, _warmer_. Though he's clearly still a touch stiff and uncomfortable with the new outfit, in a way that suggests the unfamiliarity still bothers him. But he looks better than the last time Crowley had seen him, tired but no longer so drawn and so grey. Crowley checks his aura and finds it significantly more stable, the edges have smoothed down, the flow of him more gentle, he's still a little uneven, still a little cloudy, but perhaps that's to be expected. Aziraphale feels more like he should. Something tight inside Crowley slowly unwinds, unclenches, and sighs in relief. 

He thinks it shows on his face, because Aziraphale's smile is very gentle and also very relieved.

Crowley would like to be wearing his glasses right now, but they're nowhere to be found.

"It's good to see you awake again." Aziraphale offers the cup. "I made you coffee. I have very little experience at it, so it's probably terrible. I shall apologise in advance."

Crowley can't help the raised eyebrow, and the dubious look. There have been muttered asides and long, scathing comments in the past, and he knows perfectly well how Aziraphale feels about coffee, about Crowley's love of the stuff. He lifts a hand and the angel passes it to him, then clears his throat and retrieves something from the pocket of his trousers. A set of Crowley's sunglasses, perfectly folded, he offers them as well.

Crowley takes them in the other hand, flicks them open - 

After a moment, he lets them fall shut, then he lifts the coffee and takes a cautious sip. Finds it...as awful as he expects, to be brutally honest. It's clearly instant, and powdery, it's genuinely terrible, Aziraphale has outdone himself.

"It's pretty terrible," he says honestly. "Did you put the milk in afterwards?"

"I wasn't sure whether you'd want it black," Aziraphale says, which sounds like both an answer and an apology. "But putting the milk in is something of a habit I'm afraid."

Crowley hums, drinks half of it anyway. 

"I suspect I'll improve with practice, given the opportunity." Aziraphale sounds hopeful, which Crowley can't help but find oddly endearing. "You'll have to remind me which brands you prefer. It's rather more complicated than I thought. There are a lot of ratios to consider, coffee, to milk, to cream, all sorts of additions and things, vanilla, hazelnut, chocolate even?! The many choices were rather overwhelming." The angel has been researching coffee, this much is obvious. Crowley's sort of sad that he missed him going down that particular rabbit hole. Though the distraction seems to have been good for him.

"Are you alright, Aziraphale, really?" Crowley asks gently, because he can't help it.

Aziraphale sighs, fingers briefly pinching together. "I would dearly like to say yes, but that wouldn't be entirely truthful. However, I'm quite stubborn, as you're aware, and I've been working on it. I'm sure I can manage a yes in due time."

Something inside Crowley squeezes, leaving him briefly wanting for breath. But it's not an unpleasant feeling, it's so familiar, so very old, entirely _Aziraphale_.

"That's good," he says, and he means it, and Aziraphale knows it too, smiles down at him. "What about this, what's this?" Crowley asks, with a nod at his new clothes. Because that seems like a better choice for questions now, rather than pressing harder at Aziraphale's well-being. "What is it, casual Friday?"

Aziraphale looks down at himself, makes a small noise that's not entirely happy, then lifts a hand and smoothes his cardigan, as if he's still self-conscious about it.

"Oh, yes, trying something new, not sure if it works for me yet." He looks up with a hopeful sort of expression.

Crowley lets him stew for a moment, while he considers the new outfit and finishes his awful coffee.

"It'll do," Crowley tells him eventually, which is true enough. It's not too different, it still feels like Aziraphale's own unique sense of style. Of which he'll make no comment where the angel can hear him. 

Crowley's made a habit of gently prodding the angel to update his wardrobe over the years, trying to convince him that a change can be good for you sometimes. Pointing out the very real danger of Aziraphale becoming a living anachronism if he leaves it too long. Any other time he'd make a joke, something that would needle the angel just enough to make him huff annoyance and poke him right back. But he doesn't, he suspects he knows the reason behind the sudden change this time. He knows that it was forced upon Aziraphale, rather than something that he'd chosen, something gently encouraged, or tried a piece at a time. Crowley knows how hard it must have been for him. It'll take them both a while to get used to. 

"Though I will warn you, the cardigan -" Crowley sucks a breath and shakes his head. "It's very approachable, very soft, you look _helpful_ , they'll be pestering you constantly, making you give them book recommendations, references for coursework and things. You'll hate it."

Aziraphale looks down at his new cardigan, frowning gently, before looking at Crowley again.

"Really?" he asks, as if he's hoping Crowley's just teasing him.

This feels so warm, and so familiar that Crowley finds the corner of his mouth dragging itself up unexpectedly. He beats the smile back, and give a serious nod.

"But it's so comfortable," Aziraphale protests, with an annoyed sort of frustration. "And the pockets are especially pleasing."

Crowley's not surprised. It looks like you could fit an entire battenburg on each side. He should pick one up, next time he's out. The angel does love a slice or two of battenburg, and Crowley hasn't spoiled him in far too long.

"Hmm, so how long was I asleep, doesn't feel like that long, a week maybe?"

"Five days," Aziraphale supplies, and there doesn't seem to be any judgment to go with it. So Crowley decides to skip the apology. "It seemed best to let you recharge, and I made sure we were both quite safe. I mostly tidied around you, I did briefly rest a few stacks of biographies around you, while I cleaned the back shelves. Though you didn't seem to mind the unexpected fortifications."

Crowley can't help the second faint twitch of mouth, at the angel's description, and apologetic look. Which is much more familiar than the harsher, deeper expressions of apology he'd been wearing five days ago. He rather thinks that's the point. The angel is trying very hard, for the both of them. Crowley suspects that forgiving himself was a difficult thing for him to do.

"And I'm aware that you consider that sofa yours by default, but really, Crowley, you've left ghastly streaks. It'll take a miracle to get those out." Aziraphale gestures, and Crowley looks down, to where his well-worn boot had pressed against the arm, leaving a dark smudge, and a long streak.

"You normally take my boots off," Crowley points out. Then wonders if that was the right thing to say. Or if that was prodding at somewhere that Aziraphale wasn't ready to have prodded yet.

The angel surprises him by making a short noise of acknowledgement.

"Yes, well, we hadn't discussed boundaries again yet. It seemed wise to wait until I had your permission."

Crowley takes a moment to try and work out whether to find that frustrating or incredibly touching, before deciding it can be both, it's allowed to be both.

"You have my permission to take my boots off, if they're inconveniencing your furniture," he offers.

"Noted," Aziraphale says with a smile.

"You have my permission to touch me too," Crowley adds, while he still feels brave enough. Because he thinks it needs to be said, he thinks he has to say it. "You never lost it."

Aziraphale's amused expression shifts into something surprised and tender, though there are the faintest pinches of other emotions underneath, sharper and less happy. Before they're pushed away, and Aziraphale's face settles into another smile, one that's warm and hopeful. 

"Also noted," he says quietly.

~

Crowley can't stay in the bookshop forever, he has to go home eventually. Aziraphale assures him that he will be fine if Crowley leaves him alone, after acknowledging that he would worry, of course, but that he would not let himself be consumed by it, that he would deal with it as best as he could. Crowley had reminded Aziraphale that he had his phone number, and he could call him any time he liked, Crowley would always answer. Or if the angel needed to see him, to just miracle himself straight over. His place in Mayfair had never been warded against Aziraphale, and it would always allow him in.

His flat is cold and empty, but it's familiar in a way that helps him feel a touch more stable. Crowley's routine is already broken, leaving him with something that feels easier, but far more painful. He's not alone this time - even though he wishes that he was, he'd take doing this alone over any of this having touched Aziraphale too. But he'll work his way through it as best as he can.

He's not quite in the right headspace to berate his plants yet. It's never a good idea to venture into that room for a week or so after one of Hell's reprimands. He's always too angry, too wounded, too eager to hurt something - and often too drunk. But this time he's simply tired, and cautiously hopeful that he can find his way back to the place he and Aziraphale had reached, without it bruising either of them too much on the way.

He feeds the plants, and then mists them, giving them all very specific warnings, telling them to be ready for an inspection in three days. A grace period, he tells them with more than a hint of amusement, that the angel had won for them. He'd made them understand how grateful they should be to Aziraphale for that.

Crowley makes himself coffee, and then doesn't drink it, he spends hours pacing between the office and his bedroom instead, restless in a way he can't pin down, stomach all knots and tension. He tries to watch television, but it's all just droning voices, gambling adverts and historically inaccurate period dramas - and still the vague, lingering suspicion that familiar voices will start to grate through the speakers. That Hell will show up in this quiet space to shake his hard-won peace. The voices will roll out of the electronics any moment now, will tell him he's lucky that his punishment wasn't worse. _He's lucky that they made him useful, that they let him skip the broken bones and torn muscle this time. They could have left him flayed and bleeding instead. He's lucky that he's one of Hell's best, that they wanted him to stay in one piece. He's lucky that he takes his punishment so well, for so long. But don't get complacent, don't slack off. They could have him back whenever they pleased -_

It matches up sickeningly well with day two of his normal post-Hell routine, enough to have angry, frustrated misery expanding in his chest. He'd foolishly hoped this time he'd managed to avoid it, that it would be better now that it was all over for good. Normally he'd drink heavily and then hiss protests and insults at the television, until he eventually passed out. But he doesn't do that, he won't do that, he refuses. He doesn't need to bury himself in this, to get through the other side and brace himself for the next time. Because Hell can't hurt him any more. 

At three fifteen in the morning he gives in and calls Aziraphale, and he honestly can't decide if that feels like a failure or progress. The angel answers straight away, says his name like Crowley has shown up at the last minute to save him.

"I'm so happy that you called." Aziraphale's voice is warm with relief, a little jittery, as if he's desperately trying to hold in more words. "I've re-shelved the G's six times tonight already, trying to keep myself busy. I didn't want to disturb you, in case you were sleeping, but I was thinking about you."

Crowley wonders how long he'd been desperately trying not to call him. 

"Read me something," Crowley asks. Feeling adrift suddenly, once the words are out, because they don't ask, they never ask for things like this. Everything between them is insinuation and subtlety, teasing and suggestion, grand gestures and gifts and favours and longing. Thousands of years of it.

They don't just ask each other for things that they need, and for a moment Crowley is terrified that he's broken some sort of rule, something they've followed for so long, unspoken but immutable. He's afraid that Aziraphale will protest, that he'll refuse. 

"Of course," Aziraphale says instead, sounding so pleased, so impossibly pleased by the request. "Of course, I know just the thing."

~

The plants get a severe talking to three days later. Crowley doesn't know whether he's proud or disappointed that none of them show signs of slacking off. You can't punish something that's done nothing to deserve it. _You shouldn't punish something that's done nothing to deserve it._

The thing about coping mechanisms is acknowledging them, understanding that that's what they are. There's no control in not knowing _why_ you do something.

~

Crowley isn't sure if Aziraphale wants to see him at the shop every day, but it's the routine they seem to have fallen into. It's not so very different from the regularity that they saw each other as the end of the world drew close. Though this time there's significantly less fretting and discussions of child murder. 

Preferable, Crowley decides eventually.

Aziraphale re-opens, in his own unique and particularly unpredictable way, seven days after Crowley wakes up. He briefly worries at the cardigan he's wearing (he's somehow acquired three more in a variety of colours that all seem chosen from the world's most boring living room paint catalogue) likely remembering what Crowley said about encouraging people to ask questions about literature. Normally the angel would love to be asked about literature, but Crowley suspects he's haunted by the thought of people trying to make off with his books if he's too complimentary about them. Heaven forbid he's uncomplimentary about anything to avoid it though. It's an amusing situation he's found himself in, and Crowley's genuinely curious how he's planning to resolve it.

Crowley reassures him that he looks fine, and then drinks wine and reads his phone, slipping from chair, to sofa, to insolent bookshelf lean throughout the day, wearing a faintly amused smile while Aziraphale attempts to look distant and unapproachable. He's terrible at it, and also adorable. It feels familiar, and Crowley watches Aziraphale roam his bookshop and make pained expressions, and subtly convince people that they don't in fact want this particular book today, and something inside Crowley unwinds all the way, and settles.

Hours later the angel presses the door shut with his whole body, and then locks it manually, as if to reassure himself that the hordes can't return and slip their grubby fingers all over his first editions. When he turns towards the sofa Crowley lifts a new bottle of wine, raises an eyebrow in invitation.

"Join me, angel."

Aziraphale goes very still, expression torn, and it occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale has not joined him for more than a few drinks since they came back from Hell. He's always declined, politely, or decided on tea instead, muttering something about needing his concentration for night-time inventory, or needing to stay sober for important calls. He's afraid, for some reason, of letting himself breathe, of letting himself be drunk, or of letting himself be drunk with Crowley. 

"It's alright, angel. I promise not hold it against you if you turn into a sad drunk." He hopes the angel understands what he means by that.

Aziraphale frowns, expression ever so slightly pained, as if to say he's not sure he can make the same promise. Crowley lowers the bottle, uncertain suddenly. He hadn't really thought - hadn't questioned whether Aziraphale was ready to be so vulnerable with him.

"You don't have to -"

"No, no." The angel seems to make the decision all at once, takes the bottle from him and rifles in the drawer behind him for a corkscrew. "I don't think I'm going to let Hell ruin something that we've enjoyed together for almost five and a half thousand years," he says fiercely. Then jams the sharp end into the cork, in a way that makes Crowley so impossibly proud and adoring that he can't help but be glad Aziraphale's attention is on the wine and not him. Because he suspects it will be stupidly obvious on his face.

Aziraphale refills his glass, and slowly pours himself one. Before inhaling in a way that feels purposely fortifying.

"Though I will admit to being quite afraid that I will say something insensitive, pressing somewhere we both find unpleasant. I'm afraid that I will say something I don't mean, or say something in the wrong way, and you'll -"

"I'll forgive you," Crowley reassures him, because there's no question. There's not a single thing the angel could say that would change his feelings. Briefly wound them perhaps, but never change them. "Of course I'll forgive you. You told me we weren't friends once, I'm not sure you could be more hurtful than that."

"You knew it was a lie," Aziraphale says. As if Crowley had known that at the time, as if he'd been certain of it. When he'd simply hoped, desperately hoped that it was.

Crowley nods anyway. "Doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

Aziraphale acknowledges the point with a tip of head. "You are my very best friend, and you know me by now to be fussy, stubborn, judgemental, and occasionally insensitive."

Crowley can't help the smile. "I do."

There's a brief pout in his direction, which very quickly stretches into a smile, and then a gesture with Aziraphale's glass - Crowley lifts his own, and gently taps the angel's with it.

They share the first bottle, and the second, and most of the third. It's not perfectly familiar, there's still an awkward, careful tension. There's the quiet understanding that they are both avoiding certain topics. But Crowley knows from experience that you can't force things back to normal, you can only wait until they settle themselves. Or perhaps, until the weight of your previous experiences and trust in one another slowly crushes anything that threatens it. Though he's also had some luck in the past exhausting bad experiences into a quiet, messy surrender. 

But Aziraphale has carefully tucked himself in next to him, warm and heavy and familiar, his posture not as perfect as it might have been, while Crowley has claimed two thirds of the cushions with his own angular sprawl, and it's good enough. It's close enough.

"Did you ever think about it?" Aziraphale asks, gesturing gently with his glass. "Being free, having the ability to choose, to do whatever you wanted?"

"All the time," Crowley says, because it's an easy question, of course he did.

Aziraphale looks surprised, and then perhaps a little envious. "I don't think I did, not until the end, not until - not until it all seemed likely to come to an end. I don't think it occurred to me that I could think that way. But even then it all felt so impossible. Simple enough for humans, but not for us, we didn't get to decide, we didn't get to be anything else. Even the idea of it seemed -"

Blasphemous, Crowley thinks. Because of course it did.

Aziraphale nods, as if he'd heard him.

"Not _impossible_ impossible though," Crowley protests. "We could have fallen into some sort of alternate timeline, aberrations left without anywhere to belong. We could have ended up in some liminal space, outside of time. Or maybe we'd have been inside it when all life in the universe was destroyed in some freak accident, only to pop back up to an empty creation. We could have somehow been rendered mortal, or maybe sent on a long-term mission together that required us to make decisions of our own." Crowley has so many of them, _so many_.

"You've clearly thought about this more than I," Aziraphale seems to realise, looking stunned.

Crowley shrugs. "Six thousand years gives you a lot of thinking time." He downs half his wine, rather than admit that he'd spent _years_ of that thinking up elaborate ways that he and Aziraphale could have been together, could have been utterly free. Rather than admit that he's stupidly grateful that they've ended up here, in this place together, or that he doesn't regret travelling an inch of the road full of glass shards that brought them to it. 

He'd been afraid for Aziraphale, during the swap. But not because he'd thought they would punish him. Betrayal and treachery were always going to be met with holy water, with complete destruction. If he'd thought for an instant that there'd be any sort of _punishment_ for Aziraphale, he never would have let the angel go down there. But he'd still been afraid for him, and then afterwards it had almost felt too easy, too smooth, too clean. Crowley had never had anything handed to him, he'd always had to fight for it, he'd always had to suffer for it.

He hadn't really felt free then.

But he did now.

"I thought about inviting you to dinner," Aziraphale says quietly, as if he thought the silence had gone on too long, and he was hoping to fill it.

"You invite me to dinner all the time," Crowley points out. But he knows what the angel means. He knows and he wants Aziraphale to say it. He wants one of them to say it - when they've spent so long not saying anything at all.

Aziraphale pulls a face, at his wilful misunderstanding. Crowley relents, because it's probably unfair, he's always been the one who pushes after all.

"You should ask me some time," he says, and hopes that doesn't contain a single ounce of the desperate longing he wants to shove into it.

"I was unsure whether you were interested in romantic pursuits." Aziraphale says that so carefully, as if the words have sharp edges. "I'm still uncertain now how such overtures would be received, if I should make them." 

_Overtures_ , the angel is always so very polite. So many words and he still knows how to talk his way around something when he should just say what he means. To really cut to the heart of the matter. Crowley is so very sick of talking around things, of neither of them saying what they mean. 

"Are you asking me whether my long history of being raped and tortured leaves me unwilling to be fucked?" Crowley asks flatly. Because isn't that the question here? 

Aziraphale, who's gone very still, who's holding himself carefully still, stares at him over his wine glass.

"I was asking whether you would like it if I kissed you," he says softly.

Crowley's gut clenches in something which feels a lot like shame, and perhaps he's the one that shouldn't be drunk in company. He gives a cough of laughter that he knows is wildly inappropriate. Because of course he was going to say something fucking awful at the first hint of intimacy. Of course he was. 

But Aziraphale just keeps _looking_ at him.

"Yes, angel, I would like it if you kissed me," he grates out. Though it comes out tight, like something he would suffer through, rather than something he's wanted for thousands of years. He knows it's come out wrong because of the way Aziraphale is frowning at him now. The way he suddenly looks tense and unhappy.

"I have no interest in anything that you don't desire," Aziraphale tells him gently. "I would never ask you for anything you didn't want."

That soft statement, for some reason, has Crowley prickling with hot and unexpected anger. Because he's not some fucking human child, to be patronised and coddled and protected from his own past. He still knows what he wants, he's still capable of wanting things, of feeling things. Is that what Aziraphale thinks of him, that he's somehow incapable of making his own choices now? Is he going to treat Crowley like he's made of fucking glass, to love him but never expect anything physical from him? Would Aziraphale even be able to touch him, without feeling guilty, or disgusted, or wondering whether Crowley was thinking about the first time, and quietly hating every moment in silence. Does he even want Crowley like that at all? The first time Aziraphale had no choice about, he was forced into it to save him. 

Or is that all he thinks Crowley's capable of now? Does he think Crowley is too fucking broken to be spread out on a bed and made love to? Too damaged to want some sort of intimacy, someone to touch him like he wasn't a fucking _thing_. And if Aziraphale really thinks that, then how exactly is he going to feel about some of the things Crowley has wanted, some of the things he's asked for, that he's gone looking for, the messy, humiliating, punishing things - things that must have crawled out of Hell with him, and made a home in him. How could he possibly expect Aziraphale to understand those, to accept those, to not be horrified by them if he ever confessed.

_I have no interest - I would never -_

"And if I desire you," Crowley bites out, mouth suddenly sharp with wine and venom. "If I wanted you to desire me, to want me like that. If I wanted you to fuck me again? Does that factor into your romantic pursuits? After all, you can't be strung up and fucked repeatedly for thousands of years without your body getting used to it, without it eventually learning to like it. Would you be willing to do that, Aziraphale? Would you chain me up and use me if I asked you to?" Crowley can hear himself talking but he can't seem to stop, can't stem the flow of poison that's coming out of his mouth. He hates himself for it, he hates himself for ruining everything good he's ever been given. He hates himself for pushing, for testing everything in his life to destruction. "If I wanted you to hurt me, to lay hands on me in violence, could you do that? Could you fist a hand in my hair and force my mouth down on your cock until I choked? Could you fuck me so hard that it left me bleeding if I wanted you to?" Aziraphale is watching him with a numb, bruised sort of horror, and it feels like pieces of Crowley are falling away, but he can't make himself stop. Someone please fucking stop him. "If I wanted every filthy, disgusting, depraved thing you've ever been horrified by. If I wanted you to treat me like they did? Would you still want me then? Would you still consider _romantically pursuing me_?"

The silence after that is fucking deafening, and Aziraphale blinks at him, with eyes that are no longer dry. Before he very carefully sets his shaking wine glass down. 

The look on the angel's face is devastating, and Crowley has never hated himself more. He's never felt so much like something that belongs in a cavernous room far beneath the earth, being told that he's worthless. Because he's supposed to protect Aziraphale, especially now, especially after what he's been through as well. He's not supposed to hurt him, not supposed to claw at their raw places, to drag them all into the light. He's not supposed to ruin everything, by exposing all the rotten parts inside him, to demand that Aziraphale look at them, to see everything he is, everything he could be. Before they've even had a chance, before Crowley had even told him how much he loved him - 

Crowley flinches when warm, solid fingers slip between his freezing ones and grip tightly. 

"I would always want you." Aziraphale's voice is cracked and painful to hear, but so very soft. "And there's not a single thing you could ask of me, that I would ever make you feel shame for."

There's no air in Crowley's chest, nothing but a long, burning ache that travels up from the very core of him and chokes him silent. The room is too hot, and every part of him feels weightless and unravelled, he's not sober enough to cope with this. With the way Aziraphale is looking at him right now, with the burning, inescapable grasp of his fingers.

I love you, Crowley thinks, helplessly. I have loved you longer than there have been words for it. I loved you before I even knew your name. Everything they ever did to me, everything they broke and everything they took, and they never managed to take that from me. I've spent years making it a part of me. 

Why in the name of all Creation do you love me back?

Aziraphale draws a long, shaky breath, as if Crowley had said all of that out loud, though he swears he didn't, he swears his mouth never moved. The angel leans in and takes his glass from him, murmurs something dismissive when he absently notices the long spill left on the cushions, soaking wetly into the knee of Crowley's jeans. He erases it with a wave and pulls Crowley down, until his head rests in the angel's lap, the high shelves of the bookshop arching overhead and leaving strange shadows everywhere.

Aziraphale's ridiculous upside down face is beautiful. He wants to tell him that, but he doesn't have the words.

"I'm sorry," Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale shushes him. "Would you like to sober up?" he asks gently, so very gently, Crowley suspects the angel already has done.

"Not just yet," he says. His throat hurts and he hates it. But he's not ready for the cold clarity of sense just yet.

Aziraphale hums a soft noise, as if that's alright, as if it's all alright. His hand settles slowly and carefully in Crowley's hair, eyes searching his briefly, but whatever he sees there must reassure him, because there's pressure, and then the warm pull of fingers, dragging the strands back and forth, sending pleasant curls of sensation down his spine. The angel lifts his other hand, which is still half tangled with Crowley's, and presses his mouth gently against the back of Crowley's knuckles. The sweetness of the gesture makes him ache all the way through.

"Are you going to invite me to dinner?" Crowley asks, desperately. He wants to make them real, he wants it to be something they do, he wants to be Aziraphale's. Because every piece of him belongs to the angel, and against all sense Aziraphale has decided to love the messy whole of him.

The warm hand finally settles in his hair, and there's an upside down smile.

"Would you like to have dinner with me, Crowley?"

Crowley can feel his own heartbeat in his throat. 

"Yeah, angel, I'd like to have dinner with you. Where are you going to take me?"

Aziraphale makes a considering noise. "Why don't you choose for once, I'll take you anywhere you want to go, my love."

Crowley can't breathe, he can't speak, he just wants to exist in this moment forever.

Oysters, he thinks, take me out for oysters.


End file.
